End Not in Sight

The universe. God. Goddesses. Great Spirit. Take your pick. I’m feeling the presence, cautionary and close. I stepped off for my morning run, having just learned that a woman who planned to restart her life after the death of her husband last fall (and suicide of her daughter several years ago) was just diagnosed with terminal cancer. She’s not my friend — but she’s a poet and I had hopes of knowing her. And now, not.
Sand grated against the soles of my sneakers. At my back was smoke, a woodstove fending off cool damp rolling in from the water. It seemed too early. Out of place in the twixt of summer and fall. Cosmos are blooming but our century old maple tree has begun to flush red.
The house sitting next to mine is empty. I lost my neighbor, also to cancer, this spring. Irish born, a poetry lover, a writer, he was the lilt in my day. But she was to buy the house that has blank eyed windows. I imagined her writing about the beach view from her upstairs windows. Maybe we would have shared words. Wine. Wisdom. Winter is standing by.
Β Cold nights requiring comfort are waiting. The sky cleared to blue, finally waking with me.
I had forgotten my inhaler, so my breath went ragged. From run. Or tears for the woman who I never met but would have been my neighbor. I hope she will be well taken care of. For those of us who do not have the end in sight yet, I’m chanting, running, loving, remembering, breathing.

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